We’ll call them Ward and June. Ward and June are good neighbors, the kind you can only hope to have when you buy your first home in what is, by all standards, a modest neighborhood filled with young families, retirees and me.

Ward helps me clear my driveway when the town plow shoves half the street’s snow in front of my house. June has gotten my mail, given me gardening advice and warned me not to buy too much candy on Halloween.

They have a son, who will go by B (we’re not using Beaver here because no teenage male needs to be nicknamed after a large buck-toothed rodent). He’s also swell.

He turned 16 recently and got his license (this is what started the car issue). He doesn’t tear up and down the street like other kids and doesn’t roll in at 2 a.m. with Ludacris thumping from the speakers.

He goes to school, pays attention to the younger kids on the street who look up to him and generally gets along with his parents. See what I mean? Swell.

I like the family — a lot — but didn’t like the resting point their station wagon had taken.

Something had to be done.

Neighbor relations among homeowners are different from those between renters. If I had an issue with anyone around me when I lived in my apartment, I could talk with the leasing agent. She’d take care of it — anonymously. Even if the culprit did find out I complained his 3 a.m. tap-dancing was getting to me, there was a good chance one of us wouldn’t renew the lease and we’d be free of one another.

That’s not the case when you’re a mortgage-paying American. Homeownership is to renting, as marriage is to dating. There’s a permanency/proprietary/connection thing going on when you own. Plus, when you’re a renter, you sort of feel like it’s a waste of time to bond with your neighbors, because you’re all going to be scattering to the four winds eventually.

I’ve lived in my house for five years and, in that time, only one neighbor on my street has moved out. And they came back.

So I couldn’t ignore the problem, lest it drive me nutty and cause resentment.

I wish the family wasn’t so great, because then confronting them would’ve been easy.

The problem came in the form of their newly acquired third car. Their driveway, like most on the street, is only wide enough to host a single car. Granted, they could go three-deep, but that rejiggering is more of a hassle than folding fitted sheets.

So they placed the extra automobile in an easy place — my front lawn.

I lamented over the car’s positioning for a week or so. I feared its placement was killing — or at least sickening — what I’d worked so hard to build. I’ve spent hundreds of hours turning my bumpy mass of weeds to a lush, level green expanse. Well, as much of an expanse as you can have when you’re working with less than an acre.

The tilling and subsequent grass-clump-shaking and bagging of ’05 was the worst, and left me unable to move — literally — the day after. Not even a two-hour Boot Camp exercise class caused as much pain.

Over the past four years I’ve measured the rain, set my alarm to water before 5 a.m. in the summer (thank you, town-dictated watering rules) and nursed bare spots back to health. Yes, I watch grass grow and often find it fascinating.

My neighbors, who spend a good amount of time working outside themselves, know this. They see me out there, chasing down rodents while other neighbors take off for a hike or a round of golf.

Clearly, they would understand. As I headed over to Ward and June’s, I was passive, timid and nervous. I had flashbacks to elementary school, when Charles picked on me and I wanted it to stop. At least back then, Mom could go to my teacher. I was on my own now.

I didn’t want to be “that difficult neighbor,” you know, the kind people write columns about.

Thing is, Ward and June were receptive, said they were glad I said something and that they understood why I didn’t want the tire tracks running from one side of my lawn to the other.

Since our informal powwow, everything has been normal. They’re still helping me with my driveway and waving hello. They even sent a fine and fancy Christmas card.

When all the cars are home, they park the extra vehicle on the street in front of my house, or deal with the pileup in their driveway.

I think talking with them was like requesting a raise or asking someone on a date. Sure, the “no” potential was there, and the aftermath could have been awkward. But, really, that’s the worst that could have happened.

People have a hard time saying “no” to someone’s face. And, when you’re dealing with neighbors of the Ward and June caliber, I guess a positive outcome is inevitable.

Now if I can only get the guy at the beginning of the street to stop yelling at me for going “too fast” when I’m creeping below the speed limit, then honking at me to hurry up making a left-hand turn off my street when he’s behind me.

He’s more of an Eddie than a Ward, so I’m not sure how that’ll go down.

2 Responses

I feel your pain. For me, I really enjoy taking care of my landscape more than anything else on my property. I try to keep my property as neat as I possibly can at all times. Weekends are my time to shine I guess.

Then there are my neighbors.

Across the street is the nicest family. John (the father) coulnd’t be more helpful. If ever I need maintenance advice, he is the go to guy. But then there is the son. He is around 22 or so and a little reckless I’d venture to say. He owns a pitbull. Not my choice of an ideal pet. But then comes Christmas. He adds to his ever expanding canine family. ANother pitbull. Okay, fine. Problem is, no fence. They are all over the place. They leave there deposits on MY lawn. MINE!! I don’t own a pet so I shouldn’t expect to run over anything a pet leaves behind with my lawnmower. Its bad enough that I have to worry about being eaten alive by them, but now I have to do a quick sweep before I dare fire up my mower.

To make matters worse, he likes to park on the edge of my lawn. When it rains, forget it…..mess, mess, mess. He likes to spin the wheels a bit to get out of the mud. My blood is boiling at the moment just typing this.

Like I said in the beginning, the father is one of the nicest people I’ve met, but I’m, afraid of just asking him to talk to his son. It really is like asking for a date or raise.

My neighbors are idiots. Plain and simple. All of them. We lived in a nice working class neighborhood prior to moving into this upper middle class monstrosity. The folks in our previous neighborhood were wonderful. The HOA would greet a new homeowner and people would stop and say hi when they walked their dogs. There were old people and young people… it was great!I don’t even want to be near these wildebeasts, just in case dumb is contagious.

The imbiciles on my cul de sac now may be in a higher income tax bracket, but with the exception of the prison guard next door, they’re buffoons.

Be thankful your neighbors were receptive, and respect your concerns. They’re one in a million. Neighbors can make or break your experience as a homeowner.